


The Ruffled Feathers of a Flightless Bird

by 221blackandwhitestripes



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Wings, Canonical Character Death, Dreams, Episode: s02e08 Tonight's the Night, Episode: s02e09 A Bitter Pill to Swallow, Falling In Love, Fate & Destiny, First Kiss, Fluff, Ghost Dreams, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Recovery, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 09:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15458694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221blackandwhitestripes/pseuds/221blackandwhitestripes
Summary: Penguin, that's what they call him; Penguin.And they don't understand the irony---Oswald was born with two wings on his back and, somehow, that changes everything.





	The Ruffled Feathers of a Flightless Bird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irisbleufic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/gifts).



> Hello! *waves*. This was intended to be much short but... it kinda got away from me. Oh well, please read my longest non-multi chapter fic yet and enjoy :D

There are two appendages attached to Oswald’s back. 

They follow him in mirrors and glass windows, haunting him with their feather trail. Oswald pretends they’re not real. He conceals them in forever shadows and layers of subterfuge. The wrappings and ties of a tight bandage, followed by an undershirt, then the over shirt, waistcoat, suit jacket and--finally--overcoat. It’s heavy and itchy; it flattens him like boulders. His muscles strain forever tight and bound. His feathers permanently bend. He is misshapen, a tree growing from the vertical, roots wrangling themselves to keep him stable.

He does not fight it.

Mother hated it (yes, he recalls it now). She would forever pound her heart with a fist, tell him; “be proud of who you are.” 

There are simply some things a boy can’t do. 

What other desire crossed over her heart would be hers if it killed him, but he could never allow her this. Why should he display the _things_ that had caused him years of wretched scorn, years of twisting-silver knives and rusty nail glares; years of pan-oil spitting names in nails-on-chalkboard voices? They are his burdens to bear.

She’s gone now (buried herself in a dark-dirt grave, mouthful of things she wouldn’t have forgave).

She was the last person who knew, in the end. Now, for the first time, it’s just him. And perhaps whatever unknown deity cursed him into black-feathered bleakness. Oswald can’t wait for the day he dies too and he can spit in the cretin’s face.

Judging by his wounds, it won’t be long now.

_Oh yes_ , for in waging his battles alone, he’s saddled himself with a hole in one appendage and a bullet-parasite- _God in heaven_ lodged in his shoulder. Prices have to be paid when taking the straight bridge across. Oswald should never have been so lazy as to divert from a long-winding path.

Now, he lies face-down on an old mattress and breathes in-and-out through his mouth. His nose isn’t working well enough anymore. Most importantly, he tries not to fall asleep. Slumber is an overbearing threat, creeping up his vision like black spots. It calls to him in siren songs and gentle tree-whispers.

He can’t fall asleep. He can’t.

(If he sleeps then he dies and if he’s dead what use was his life anyway?)

_Penguin,_ he repeats to himself, smiles like he means it. _That’s what they call me; Penguin._

And they don’t understand the irony.

Fish, she’d also known, at a time. Had smirked as her boys waddled up and down the aisles and squawked. Had hissed with fury, hitting his back-boned-spine with the leg of her chair just to hear his appendage as it bent and snapped.

She’s gone too, now. Oswald made sure of that.

He can feel his eyelids drooping now, brain a-scattering, so he resurges himself. Mind settles on brisk-walk visions to keep his body awake. Refastens the top button of his suit jacket like something matters. Opens the metal door and braves the burnt-black, frostbite air outside.

Huffing at the afternoon sun that will not warm, he wanders around the forest, unconcerned trail abolishing schematics and truth-concealing plans. He knows that this part of the woods is unoccupied anyway. That is, he thinks he knows, until he finds himself stumbling into a clearing. There’s a square hole in the floor, a suitcase laid within, and a very dead body shoved on top. Oswald stares at it for a moment, blank-paged and bewildered. That is how one should look when facing what is essentially their own, inevitable fate.

To his complete luck, there seems to be a picnic set up. It’s drastically romantic, wine and finger sandwiches set up in pretty, two-by-two patterns, making Oswald’s lip curl up in disgust. He grabs a glass, gulping down its contents in quick swallows before snatching up the sandwiches and scarfing each of them down in three easy bites.

Satisfied with his scavenging, Oswald’s foggy brain decides to head back. The sun is slowly creeping towards the horizon, and it’s only a matter of time until the dark shadows will bloom again, and the wolves and their sharp claws will come out to dance and play. He grabs the shovel at the last minute. It makes for a good enough cane and a decent enough weapon.

He’s constantly blinking the spots from his eye-corner-edges now, sleep’s song crescendoing into a loud bass beat wave that threatens to dash him against the rocky shore. He mutters to himself to occupy his mind, senseless poetry and old song lyrics his mother taught him. They come easily in sweet melodies, and it sends pang after pang into his heart. He doesn’t let it break him.

He makes his way back to his metal cage, grumbling at the vines and how they twist and move in his vision like snakes. They aren’t supposed to be doing that, and perhaps something’s wrong (perhaps he’s seeing things).

He locks the door as soon as he’s inside and pretends that his breathing is normal. (It’s not.)

_(It’s not, it’s not, it’s not.)_

The appendage with the bullet-hole is burning again. He looks over his shoulder and sees the orange flames lick like fire-tongues. They eat up his suit, ravenous. Black starts consuming his vision again, boring holes into the walls so sand can spill in. It might drown him.

_It’s not real,_ a voice reminds him.

It doesn’t sound very convincing.

There’s movement from outside like the rumbling of a dragon or the cracking of a thousand bones chewed-and-swallowed. He grabs his shovel, breath hissing from his mouth like smoke. The smoke only clouds his vision and distorts the world further. He ignores it, leaning into the adrenaline building at ever-prosperous-danger, and throws the door open.

Struggling to hold the shovel above his head, Oswald steps out to brave the perilous beast. Surprisingly though, it is merely a smudge of pink and brown. A perfect little smudge.

The adrenaline expels and Oswald’s falling, _falling…_

_(Falling)_

Collapsing in on himself (he’s on his knees like a street-rat-beggar) like a supernova turning into a black hole, imploding like he means it.

“Oh my,” says the smudge rather sweetly. Oswald blinks at it, trying to figure out where it came from. “Mr penguin?”

The smudge knew his name! _(Penguin, that’s what they call me; Penguin.)_ Perhaps this smudge was tr… tr...

_(Trustworthy?)_

“Help me.” He’s not sure if the words a forming properly because they feel like tiny bubbles of air that could pop at any second. “Please.” He adds, just in… Just in…

_(Just in case.)_

There’s a bright flash where Oswald’s picture’s being taken _(“I don’t wanna picture, mama.” “But your mother wants to see her son when he’s not home. Please? For your mother?” “Okay, mama.”)_ and then, its all black, and Oswald finally sleeps.

***

Someone is touching his wings. 

Oswald startles and twists away, fear clasping a chilling hand around his heart. But, as he turns, he sees it is only her:

His mother.

“My little Kapelput,” she croons, a tingly, warm feeling spreading through him as she combs her spindly fingers through his feathers. “My little Kapelput.”

Tears are filling his eyes, and he can’t quite explain why he feels so sad, except that every time he looks back, it seems like he’s looking at his mother through a glass-frosted window. She’s close enough to see the grey tips of her blonde curls and slight wrinkles around her eyes, but he can never hope to actually touch them.

He sniffs and lets the tears flow, crying openly when his mother tuts and gathers him in her arms.

“My poor Oswald!” She cries sadly. Her hands are still in his feathers. Present. “Is it the bullies again?”

Oswald can’t reply, his sobs so exhaustingly large, they choke him as they come out, growing their own raven-wings to fly off into the hazy gloom.

“Oswald, don’t listen to the other children,” she insists. “You are handsome. And clever. And, someday, you will be a great man.”

More birds are escaping, but he feels comforted nonetheless.

He watches them fly away. He wonders if anyone else will watch and admire his wings that same way.

***

The world is a blurry mess. Or, more precisely, a pink smudge. He blinks at it, recalling it somehow.

But then he blinks one too many times, and everything is in focus, and Oswald feels himself jump out of his skin.

Distantly, he registers warmth, burning; he’s on fire.

“Hello, Sleepyhead.” Oswald gasps, trying to get away, to escape, but his limbs won’t cooperate. He’s breathing too much, his head is a vice, _killing_ him.

“Wh-where am I?” Gasping like a fish out of water, like a penguin without a home, like a bird without wings _(Hahahahahahaha)_.

“Rapid-movement-and-elevated-heart-rate-are-counterproductive-to-the-healing-process.” The man speaks quick-fast, a hare’s getaway hop. Words blur together and form a soldier's march in Oswald’s ears. Oswald tries to push him away, to get some air in his lungs, but it’s so hard with the world burning this brightly and his head pounding like a Tibetan drum.

“Apologies in advance.” A needle, _oh God_ , a needle. Oswald tries desperately to arch himself out of the way, begging his useless appendages to do something for once. Perhaps the might fly him far, far away.

Alas; the needle pierces skin and the world begins to blur again.

“Rest up, my feathered friend.” _(Rest up, my feathered friend.)_ “We have a big night ahead of us.” _(We have a big night ahead of us)_

_(Rest up, my feathered friend)_

_(A big night ahead of us)_

_(Rest up, my feathered friend)_

_(Big night)_

_(My feathered friend)_

_My feathered friend._

_My feathered friend_

Oh **dear**.

***

“The fire has gone out, wet from snow above.” His mother is singing again, that old song from long ago, as she rubs a sponge over his sore back, being careful not get his feathers too soaked.

“But nothing will warm me more than my, my mother’s love,” Oswald joins in, because he can here. Because she’s here now. He not sure why that’s important, but it is. “I light another candle, dry the tears from my face.” He’s crying again. He really shouldn’t be; mother will be so upset if she sees. But it seems that he can no longer hide the sad and bad things from her the same way he did when they were together. Perhaps their time is now too precious to waste on deceit. Perhaps, Oswald should have learnt that long ago.

_(And perhaps he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on or why his brain has contorted into these shapeless things.)_

“Nothing can protect me more than my mother’s warm embrace,” his mother continues to sing. Always beautiful.

_(Always, always.)_

Together, they sing the final two lines. “The path ahead is dark, so dark I cannot see. But I will not fear, because my mother looks over me.”

***

There are footsteps and something bright like headlamps flash across his closed eyelids, forcing Oswald’s lounging body to stir and, sadly, awaken. He blinks because it seems that, even now, there are tears in his eyes. Even now, in the place she isn’t. In a moment, he’s remembering; her cold gasp, wide eyes, ever loving touch. He just wishes he could undo it all, find the loose thread and pull it with all his might. But he can’t.

_(He can’t, he can’t, he can’t)_

A moment later, his attention is diverted as ominous footsteps grow nearer. He sits up, grunting some amount at the pain, but he is no less ready for a fight should his captor try something.

Alas, all the stranger does is present him with a tray that holds a glass of water with a straw. A _straw_.

Not letting himself be distracted, Oswald turns his attention back to the stranger, recognising him as the same man who pushed that needle _( **God** , Oswald hates needles)_ into his neck and called him his ‘feathered friend’. Oswald gulped. _Feathered friend, feathered friend, feathered friend._

“Y-you drugged me,” he says, choosing to start with the simplest problem before tackling that mountain of mayhem.

“That was for your own benefit, Mr. Penguin.” Penguin, that’s what they call him; Penguin. “You have extensive injuries,” the man reports, blinking and cocking his head like a robotic parrot forced to recite the same amble message daily. _Extensive injuries, squawk, extensive injuries._

Now really isn’t the time to be making bird jokes.

Next order of business; the uncanny familiarity in that particular gaze, like Oswald had been thoroughly examined by those same eyes before.

“I know you,” he says, hopes the accusations in it makes a mark.

“Ed,” the man informs him, expectant. It doesn’t hit, not that Oswald is surprised, considering what line of business he’s in; no sooner is one learning somebody’s name before they’re crossing it off their hit-list. “Nygma,” the man finishes, after a while. “We met once before, at the GCPD.”

“You’re not a cop?” Oswald balks, both extremely confused why they’d let this lanky young-thing be an officer of the law, and half worried that this might be the prelude to his featuring in a jail cell.

“Oh, no, no, no,” the man bursts out laughing, like the idea of being a civil servant is some hilarious joke. Oswald has to agree with him there. “No, I’m in forensics.”

Which means Oswald is safe.

_“Do you believe in fate?”_

Which means it’s time to tackle the bigger questions.

“Where are my clothes?” he asks, innocuous as he can convince his voice to be.

“Oh, I threw them away,” Ed tells him. “They smelled.”

Oswald’s stomach drops, (an almost resounding moment of silence for the death of the night) and he has the sudden urge to find out what little is left in his stomach by examining it in front of him.

“So you know?” he asks, because Ed surely must know, there’s really no hiding it from him now.

“Know what?” That face, alight with wide-eyed, eyebrows-raised innocence. “Oh.” Pause, let the feeling sink in. “About your wing-”

“Don’t call them that!” Oswald hisses out the venom on his tongue, suddenly furious. There’s something blacker here than he thought. “They’re not… _those_. They’re just… _things_. And you know what, you have no right to keep me here, so-” Oswald tries to push himself out of bed, being marginally successful despite the roaring pain in his shoulder.

“Oh no, oh my,” Ed blocks his path, nervous and jittery like some fragile insect Oswald could crush with the toe of his shoe, if only he cared enough to try. “I’m afraid, sir, that you can’t lea-”

“You try to sedate me again, and I _swear_ , I’ll-” Oswald’s spits, sick of this, sick of _him_ , sick of always having his secret known, especially by people who don’t matter (she was the only one who mattered, and now she’s _gone_ and it’s all his fault).

“Sir!” Ed interrupts him, and, suddenly, there’s firmness there, an unwavering gaze and a steady hand. Oswald wonders where it came from. “You are a wanted man. You can try and run, but, with your condition, you’ll get about three blocks. I’m afraid that you’re stuck here until you recover.”

Oswald grits his teeth and shoves him away. The man doesn’t protest, back to his timid self like the last flash of a dying light bulb. Oswald wonders what it’ll take to see a hint of that other, surer side again.

“Now, drink up.” Ed offers the tray again, the straw taunting Oswald with its candy-cane stripes of lewd cheeriness. “It’s just water. Dehydration is common after prolonged outdoor exposure.”

Oswald pushes away the tray with a huff, rolling his eyes. Ed doesn’t resist. For some reason, Oswald finds himself disappointed.

“What do you want from me?” It’s merely a formality; a device to narrow down several options to one. Oswald could think of multiple reasons to hold him captive, a lot of them ending with Edward’s pockets filled with large wads of cash, one particularly disturbing, involving selling him to a zoo.

“Remember I mentioned fate?” Yes, _Fate._ Fatethat Ed met the one man in the world with these _things_ on his back. Fate to find him when he’s down. Fate to be the only person alive who knows where he is. Ed’s chuckling, and Oswald lets himself be whimsical for a moment, imagines it sounds dark in an evil-mastermind kind of way. “Recently, I’ve been going through a sort of… change.” The man smiles at himself, strangely geeky and sweet. Conundrum-inducing. “What kind of change, you ask?

“I didn’t.” Oswald says.

“I’ve started murdering people.” 

A beat of silence where Oswald merely blinks at him. That blood-infused, skin stripping darkness in Ed’s voice is exactly what Oswald had been looking for, but not in any way how he’d expected it. How could he have expected the announcement of a blood moon to sound as sweet and self-disillusioned as an ‘oops, look what you made me do’? The paradox is unfathomable.

“Wow.” There it is; new moon darkness, not a sliver of light, and Ed’s voice instantly becomes gravelly and chaotic. “That is _thrilling_ to say out loud.” He laughs, and it’s sweet as chocolate before it melts into something deeper, something tempting.

“How many people?” Oswald asks. Wonders if he’ll be next. (Wonders if he’ll mind.)

“Three in total.” Oswald snorts and rolls his eyes, merely out of respect for Lady Crime. Truth be told, Ed is still three up from at least a solid forty-five percent of Gotham’s population. That’s not so bad.

“Two of them I didn’t really care for.” Mindless details Oswald doesn’t need to hear. Ed’s probably still in that ‘need for justification’ stage. “But one was… my girlfriend. Miss Kringle.” Oswald’s mouth automatically twisted in distaste. “She was the love of my life.”

_(Come now, Ed, you’re better than this. You should be owning your victories, not dwelling on past mistakes.)_

“If you’re planning on killing me, could you get on with it?” Oswald requests tiredly, done with Ed’s nonsense. “At this point, it would come as a welcome relief.”

“Oh, heavens,” Ed exclaims. He seems remarkably eager to please Oswald, clambering onto the bed like a cat curling up in the crook of one’s knees. “No no no no no no no,” Ed continues emphatically, “I have no ill intentions toward you.”

Oswald doesn’t understand. Does his secret somehow make him… _admirable_ in Ed’s eyes? That can’t be right.

“Then, what are your intentions?” Oswald spits, he’s long grown weary of this constant dancing around the subject and ignoring the elephant in the room.

“I need advice, Mr. Penguin.” _Advice?_ What, did Ed wish to take a class on how to personally ruin your own life? How to destroy the people you love? How to lose everything you have in the space of a few days? 

“These murders… changed me.” That giggle again, like Ed’s silently asking him to guess the secret, to finally solve the puzzle inside his mind. “And, like the butterfly, I’ve come to realize that I cannot be a caterpillar once again.” Ed chuckles nervously. Obviously, he’s too used to his analogies not going down well. “And you’re one of the city’s most notorious killers. I brought you here,” a searching look, “-in part, because I was hoping you could…” An anticipatory breath like he’s too excited to even breathe the words into existence. “-guide me on this new path.” 

Oswald chuckles, the sound pulled and manipulated from him like a contorted puppet’s string. “ _That’s_ why you brought me here?”

“Partly, yes,” Ed confirms with a nod.

“So, it has nothing to do with my…” Oswald flaps a hand behind himself in reference to his _appendages_.

“Actually, I didn’t even know they existed until I had you back here and was patching you up. You sure do know how to hide them, Mr. Penguin,” Ed comments, a finger moving the perch of his glasses higher up his nose. Oswald narrows his eyes, scrutinizing him. “I-in case you were wondering, the bullet managed to cut a clean hole through your… before embedding itself in your shoulder, so your shoulder wound isn’t as bad as it could have been. You have your wing--uh--feathered limb to thank for that.”

“Yes,” Oswald drones begrudgingly.

“Would you mind, Mr. Penguin,” Ed bites his lip and looks at him with something akin to hope. “It’s just my… idle curiosity, I guess. Only, I have to know… Can you _fly_?” Oswald purses his lips, the muscles in his back tensing, wound aching, as his hands form fists. “O-of course, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want. How about you to tell me how you got those sc-”

“Listen, friend-” Oswald snaps.

“Ed,” the man reminds, his expression transcending angelic holiness.

“Whatever,” Oswald dismisses. He doesn’t have time for this, he will not be the one catering the flighting fancies of someone he _doesn’t even know._

He rolls out of bed, hissing at the burn. He makes his way around the footboard, finding a wall pillar to lean on. 

“My empire is in ruins. I’m a wanted man with no friends. And my mother… the one person I swore to protect, is dead because of my weakness.” He spins, a rabid dog baring his teeth. “I’m not going to stick around here to be _questioned_ like some lab experiment. So,” he chuckles and its bitter horseradish. “-wanted or not, I’m leaving. Besides, you shouldn’t want me here anyway. Hasn’t anyone ever told you;” smile, let it control you, let _hahaha_ ’s spill from your mouth like the blood from your cut-off tongue, “-demons have wings too, my friend.” The laughter tastes like medicine, but it’s infectious, poisoning him, deseasing his skin. He thinks for a moment he understands where Ed gets it. _(But, if I’m laughing, why can’t I hear anything?)_

“This life you’ve chosen only ever ends in a downward spiral.” What are words? Just another sound that will die in the end. “It happened to Falcone, Maroni and Fish. Now, it’s happened to me. But I’m still around and forced to suffer the consequences.” Oswald sniffs, chuckling a little at how easily he’s falling apart right now. “I suppose this is goodbye, my fr-”

The fishing-line snaps and Oswald collapses to the floor before slipping into the murky grey.

***

“Oswald.”

Oswald startles at the sound of that warm, yet very disapproving, tone. “Mother?”

“You should stop doing this.” Oswald gasps softly as he feels her fingers undo the ties around his back, setting his wings free and allowing his chest to expand properly; he can breathe.

He can breathe here.

“I have to, mother,” he explains bitterly. “No one understands like you do.”

“They are jealous,” she spits fire and fury. “Jealous of my beautiful son.” Her hands are gentle as she strokes his wings, pulling the loose feathers away.

“I’m sure that’s it,” he agrees placatingly. He knows it’s a lie, because jealousy doesn’t come in the form of laughing heads and pointing fingers, nor in fisted-finger shoves and crowbarred knees.

“Don’t worry, lelkem,” she says, pulling him close. She still smells of her perfume _(still?)._ “One day, someone else will understand.”

“Sure, mother.” Oswald rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

She continues to hold him _(like she’s still here)._

(“I wish Galavan never killed you, mother.”) It slips out and the world crumbles away.

_(I’m going to kill him.)_

_(He’s going to regret everything he did.)_

_(Galavan.)_

_(Galavan, Galavan, Galavan.)_

***

Oswald awakens with the scene still caught beneath his eyelids, although slowly disintegrating little by little. He’d forgotten that conversation had ever happened, but he recalls it now (ignoring everything else), recalls the sureness in mother’s words and the fierceness in her eyes.

That is, until he opens his own eyes and all thoughts of his mother are demolished, quick and chaotic like nitroglycerin.

Oswald quickly sits up, keeping the bed covers bunched up around his chest. He blinks. Stares. Blinks again. He’s not entirely sure what to make of it. It’s not every day you see a man bound to a chair with a sack over his head at the foot of your bed.

Oswald’s slow-blinking trance is only broken when Ed slowly rises from behind the figure, a smug smile on his face.

“Ta-da!” he proclaims proudly before chuckling happily to himself. It’s a dark sense of humour, one that Oswald would normally be in the mood for, but not today. 

He’s _just_ woken up.

“Who’s that?” Oswald asks because what _is_ there to ask?

“This is Mr. Leonard!” Ed replies, giggly and excited. “You were talking in your sleep last night about Glavan killing your mother.”

_Her laughter--dying (dying, dying, dying). His smarmy, self-pleased expression. Her words, angelic in nature, soothing his skin where it had been scalded. (“My little Kapelput.”) (“You were always such a good boy.”)_

_(“I’m sorry. This is my fault. Please forgive me, I am **so** sorry.”) _

_(I’m sorry, sorry, sorry)_

“I was?” he asks dully, _empty_.

“Yes,” Ed admits, wincing like he guessed he hit a nerve, and Oswald wants to scowl at him for guessing right. “Mr. Leonard,” Ed slaps his palms down on the sacked-man’s head, looking at him emphatically. “Works for Galavan.” 

_Righto_. 

“Oh! Before he was arrested, course,” Ed corrects himself, hands cutting through the air to readjust his glasses.

“Arrested?” He questions, actually sitting up fully and away from the headboard.

“Detective Gordon arrested Galavan,” Ed explains, bouncing his fingers along in the puppetry of mockery, “-for kidnapping Mayor James. He’s in Black Gate!” Ed announces delightedly, clapping his hands and laughing again. Oswald wonders if he’s a part-time game show host. He seems very excited by everything he’s saying.

“Huh,” Oswald remarks. He’s suddenly overwhelmed by an aching tiredness. His shoulders are aching, his _appendage_ as well. Galavan’s arrested. ‘Justice’ has been dealt. And now, he just wants to go back to sleep. Back to where none of this matters _(and where she’s there, singing to him, smiling at him, caring for him)_.

“Oh, I thought you’d be pleased.” A corner of Ed’s mouth sags down in a reluctant frown, his eyes growing concerned. Disappointment doesn’t suit him.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” It aches a little more to voice it because he knows it _should_ matter, it just doesn’t. God, all he wants is _sleep_ , not to feel all this _emotion_ directed at one snake-slime person. It seems like such a waste of time. “Why is he here?”

“He was a gift for you,” Ed explains, expression hopeful as he gesticulates with his hands.

“And what exactly am I supposed to do with a _Leonard_?” Oswald asks, blunt as an overused pencil.

“Kill him!” Ed proclaims excitedly, clutching Leonard’s head, fingernails noticeably digging in, much to the captured man’s dismay. “I thought it might be nice to get some retribution for your mother’s death,” Ed comes towards him, doing a little dance as he pulls out a switchblade. “-that it might cheer you up a little.” The blade flicks open and Ed’s smile looks even wilder in its glinting reflection. “No?”

“Why are you doing this, Ed?” Oswald asks, staring at the blade rather than look at the man. “You know about…”

“I don’t care about that.” Oswald scoffs and grabs the blade from him. Ed steps back, pressed-together lips barely containing his clear excitement. Oswald’s limp is worse now that he’s in so much pain. Still, he makes an effort to get out of bed and make his way to Leonard’s chair. The trussed up chicken is still squealing and squirming. Oswald could slit his throat right here and watch the blood-river flow in its glorious way.

But he’s too tired.

The blade drops to the floor, embedding itself, and Oswald turns to Ed’s disappointed face. It _really_ doesn’t suit him.

“I’m done,” he seethes. He’s so _tired_. “I need some rest, and then I’m leaving Gotham forever.” He limps back to the bed, pulling the covers up all the way.

He still hears Ed’s voice, however, when he says; “I really thought he’d like you.”

He wishes he hadn’t.

So he hums to block out any other words Ed chooses to come up with; that old song from long ago (the one Oswald doesn’t think he’ll ever forget).

***

The fire is crackling (it’s not a real one, they can’t afford it. It is, in fact, a cheap electronic heater, but Oswald is young and has always pretended it’s a real fireplace like those in picture-books).

“You need to get up, lelkem.” His mother is here again, and he smiles. Still, he finds his fingers pulling the covers tighter around himself, his head burrowing further beneath his pillow.

“I’m still sick mama!” he claims. It’s a lie (Oswald’s remembering now).

“I know, Oswald.” He hadn’t seen it then, but Oswald recognises the knowing disbelief in her voice as she humours him. “But it is always good to be having the fresh air.”

“You won’t make me go to school?” he asks, and this is definitely telling.

“Of course not,” his mother says with a smile, her hand soothing over his cheek. “You are still unwell, lelkem.”

“I am, I am!” he claims excitedly before forcing an exaggerated cough. He gets up and shucks his pyjamas, going to fasten his bandages around his wings.

“Not today, lelkem,” she says, gently taking them from his grasp and putting them back in their drawer. “Your coat will be enough. No one will know.” Oswald can tell that she wants him to forgo the coat altogether, but this compromise is more than she usually asks of him, so he agrees.

They go out and walk through the city. Eventually, they come to the docks. It’s not usually safe there, but Oswald is unafraid with his mother at his side. She tells him how she lived in Örvényes, by the Vadkacsa beach on the Balaton lake bed. She tells him how the water shone every time her parents took her there.

“I miss my home,” she says, her eyes leaking like the drain pipes above their bedroom. Oswald wishes he could let himself cry the way she does.

“I miss you.” The wind captures his words and carries them away, and it’s like they were never there to begin with.

***

_“The fire has gone out, wet from snow above.”_ A woman is singing to him, and it should be his mother but it isn’t. He doesn’t know who this person is. A scratching sound underlays for a moment, and Oswald realizes that a record is playing. _“But nothing can warm me more than my, my mother’s love.”_ Another voice has joined in, raw and untempered. A man’s voice; one Oswald recognises.

“I light another candle,” Ed sings, piano keys joining the song, “-dry the tears from my face-”

“Why are you playing this song?” Oswald asks, interrupting him because he cannot bear hearing another word, can’t bear waiting until the end . _(“Nothing can protect me more than my mother’s warm embrace.”)_

_(Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!)_

“I can bring tears to your eyes and resurrect the dead. I form in an instant and last a lifetime. What am I?” Ed asks, and _yes_ , this Oswald can focus on.

( _“The path ahead is dark.”)_

“A memory,” he spits it like old chewing gum. “So what?”

_(“So dark, I cannot see.”)_

“You were humming this under your covers,” Ed explains, twisting in his chair to grab the back of it (he’s always moving, Oswald can barely keep up). “I figure it has meaning for you.”

_(“But I will not fear.”)_

He inhales. He knows it’s coming.

_(“‘Cause my mother looks over me.”)_

_(Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!)_

“Every night, when I was young, my mother would sing that song to me when I was going to bed.” Oswald watches as Ed get up and walks towards him (constantly moving; a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma) _(but perhaps there is a key)_. 

“And, every time, she would tell me…” Oswald laughs a broken laugh as Ed sits on the bed, and it’s just the same, her hair wrapped in the glow of nighttime light; his hair capturing that neon green. “Oswald,” he swallows down something, words maybe, fears? They’re thicker than air. “Don’t listen to the other children,” he chokes. Something’s trickling like a broken tap, and he thinks he may be crying. “You are handsome. And clever.” he can still see it, her face softened, young once more. Another tear trickles down his cheek. “And, someday, you will be a great man.”

Oswald smiles, laughs breathily (tears fall) because, _god_ , did he let her down. Ed smiles admiringly (ghost-like), he doesn’t seem to understand. “She said that every time.” _laugh, laugh, laugh,_ it’s not funny. “That’s all I have left now,” he sniffs and he can’t cover it up anymore, an invisible wall has toppled and now he’s buried beneath bricks and trying not to sob. “-memories. And they’re like daggers in my heart.”

“Not forever,” Ed tells him, smile comforting, like it means something.

(It doesn’t.)

Ed reaches for something on the nightstand (constantly moving), holding up a pair of glasses grasped delicately between his fingers. “These were Miss Kringle’s.” Ed smiles at them, sweet, leaving Oswald to wonder who the hell he’s talking about. “It’s all I have left to remember her by.” Oh. The _girlfriend_. “But when I look at these, I don’t feel sadness anymore,” he smiles and laughs a little, hyena-like in his inability to stop, it seems. “I feel gratitude.” _Oh, **wow**. A-plus apathy._ “Do you know why?”

“No,” Oswald states bluntly. “And I don’t care.” He wants to go back to sleep. “This little visit is over.” He gets off the bed, bowing a little (not in pain, but perhaps in pain). If he can’t sleep here, he’ll simply find somewhere else he can. “I will simply bid you adieu.”

“Mr Penguin,” Ed begins (he’s irritated and Oswald likes it, maybe he’ll _do_ something for once). He walks around and blocks Oswald’s path, but he keeps limping until he’d right up close, daring (it’s a game; come to play little mouse, I’ll show you this penguin’s a lion).

_(Penguin, that’s what they call him; penguin. They don’t understand the irony.)_

“For some men, love is a source of strength,” Ed says. Oswald wants to laugh. Maybe he’s been infected. “But for you and I, it will always be our most crippling weakness.” Wow. Projecting, much?

“Move aside. Ed.” Oswald spits. He’s had quite enough of this, he just wants to go somewhere he can sleep, dammit. 

He realizes too late that it is the first time he’s spoken the other man’s name aloud.

“We are better off unencumbered.”

Oswald inhales sharply. How _dare_ he say that, speak of her as if… “What did you say?” He’s shaking now, daring Ed to take it back, to realise his mistake, to submit at last.

(But if he doesn’t, Oswald might get to see something pretty for the first time.)

_(Whether that’s crimson gleaming on a dark wood floor or something else entirely is yet to be determined.)_

“You said it _yourself_ ,” he’s hissing and wild like an alley-cat, snapping and cracking like lightning in front of Oswald’s eyes. This is exactly what he’ wanted. “You mother is _dead_ ,” _(No.)_ “Because of your weakness.” _(No, no!)_ “But what you need to realize,” _(No, **stop**!)_ “- is that your _weakness_ ,” _(Stop, dammit.)_ “-was _her_.” _(No, no, no. **no!** )_

(His body moves fast like a crashing wave, he’s twisting and pulling like a tide, snatching that switchblade and flicking it open, turning and pressing it against Ed’s neck.)

_It looks like he’ll be using it to kill someone after all._

“My mother was a saint!” he shouts it so he can hear it over the record-scratch din echoing in his ears. “The only person who truly cared about me, who _understood_ , and now she’s _gone_. And I have nothing left.” It seems he can’t contain this sob, and it fills his lungs, escapes his mouth like the birds that had soared overhead that day at the docks. He pushes the knife closer to Ed’s neck, oh-so-tempted to push down, to tear and sever, to see the aftermath of another destructive path.

But part of him wants to see what will happen.

“A man with nothing that he loves,” (tell me a secret and I’ll be tempted to keep it) “-is a man that cannot be bargained,” he’s leaning into the blade now and it’s almost erotic, thrills and electric charges racing down Oswald’s spine. “A man that cannot be betrayed,” _(Butch’s sorry-not-so-sorry shrug and cleared out eyes)_ “A man who answers to no one but himself.”

“But that is _not_ ,” Oswald’s shaking, his words earth-quaking, and he feels his _appendages_ twitch (they have a mind of their own; they cannot be contained). “What I _want_.” He wishes he wasn’t crying, wishes he could make his hand slash through Ed’s throat without a thought, but he can’t.

_(He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.)_

“Then find someone else you can _trust_ to love,” Ed says, and his eyes are too deep, he’s supposed to be young and sweet, wild and free, not wise and ocean-trenched. “Because she’s gone, Oswald.” He’s unapologetic, and Oswald thinks his hand might just slip now, so he tightens the blade in his fist. “She’s gone.”

“And you have to let her go.”

It’s like he’s waking up, properly this time, no need for blurry blinks or half-hearted groans as the world suddenly comes into focus; one hand shaking and fisting Ed’s dark green jumper, the other holding the blade to Ed’s throat, and Oswald pulls both of them away (but Ed hadn’t seemed afraid, and Oswald likes that). Everything else comes too; the helicopter noises, the bursts of blue and neon-green light, Ed’s twin brown eyes staring into his own.

Ed takes the switchblade from his hand with a gentle caress (thrilling, spine-tingling, they touch and supernovas collide). Oswald doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to another man before. For a moment, he can’t breathe.

Ed closes the switchblade and keeps his stare. Oswald doesn’t want him to break it, wants them to just stay like that, staring into one another’s eyes like two opposing forces magnetized to each other.

Oswald doesn’t feel tired anymore.

“Why don’t you hate me, Ed?” he asks. It sounds more like a confession than a question.

“Because I’m not afraid of you.” Ed smiles, and it’s not at all child-like this time. Softer. (It’s almost the same, Oswald can _just_ see her blonde curls, faded blue eyes, those aging lines.)

Oswald tilts his head and smiles with him. It’s small, but it’s real and it’s something. 

“I don’t suppose-” Ed pauses and his Adam’s apple bobs. Oswald wonders what he’s swallowing. “-you’d mind if I changed your bandages now. I imagine it’ll be much easier with you conscious, after all.” Ed laughs, nervous like a man caught beneath Oswald’s faux-smile-web.

“As long as you don’t tell me about what happened when I was unconscious, sure,” Oswald agrees brightly.

“Oh, Mr. Penguin, I _assure_ you, nothing happened untowardly, I would never-” Ed babbles, eyes wide like white mugs of hot chocolate.

“Ed, it’s fine,” Oswald rolls his eyes and huffs a laugh (the laughter is infectious, but Oswald’s is beginning to like the disease). Ed seems to notice that he said his name this time, and Oswald watches him melt a little. It’s a silent language that Ed speaks, the slackening of his muscles, tightening of expressions, softness in his eyes. Oswald wants to become fluent in it all.

“Good.” Ed motions with his head for Oswald to go sit back on the bed, and Oswald does, watching as Ed moves around the apartment, gathering his things, disappearing behind the same door several times before finally coming back to stand by Oswald’s side. He seems frantic, looking over his supplies with a deliberation bordering on obsessive.

“Ed, there’s no need to be nervous,” Oswald reminds him, a little concerned now as Ed’s right-hand inches up into his hair and pulls. “You’ve done this before, right?”

“Y-yes, but no one was watching me,” Ed explains. He’s hazardous, a track-tumbling freight train that won’t stop.

“Would you prefer it if I kept my eyes closed?” Oswald huffs a laugh because he’s kidding, really, but Ed gives him this tight-lipped _look_ and Oswald translates it instantly. “I can close my eyes, if you want.” It sounds butterfly-like and peaceful, and Oswald doesn’t know where the sudden grace has come from, only that looking at Ed’s face stirs something within him that compels him to act this way.

“Yes, please.” It’s a little bitter and self-relenting, but Oswald’s not sure how to fix it so he closes his eyes and lets it be.

“I trust you,” he whispers into the dark, more for his own benefit than for Ed’s.

Ed doesn’t reply, but Oswald’s okay with that. He wouldn’t know what to say either.

Ed is remarkably gentle unwrapping the bandages from his shoulder. _(Sweet caress, those tingling touches; Oswald might just drown.)_ It’s when Ed’s hands go to his wings that Oswald finds a gasp pushing from his lips, and his eyes spring open like trick-locks.

“Sorry,” he stammers, snapping his eyes shut again.

“It’s okay,” Ed whispers. He’s carving something into Oswald’s feathers; swirls and patterns like riptide wonders. He flinches. It’s a mistake. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” Oswald whispers. Tension releases as more bandages are pulled away. It’s reminiscent and familiar; a move Oswald himself has performed countless times over. He sighs and bends forward, relaxing a little.

“Your feathers look a little matted,” Ed comments, brushing his fingers over them. Oswald shudders (he’s earth-quaking again). “Are you sure I’m not hurting you?”

“Th-they’re just sensitive.” Oswald doesn’t stutter, detests his tongue for betraying him with loose-fingered back-stabs.

“Oh.” A touch, golden-light, like fingers bathed in the sun, like an angelic soul breathing life.

“My mother is the only other one who ever really touched them,” Oswald says to cover his heavy-breathing silence, to dissuade, distract and discombobulate further.

“Really?” It’s almost the same with him, that gentle sweetness. But it’s underlaid by some other creature that cannot be ignored, a siren singing a strange call, inciting something, enticing something, and Oswald is left a little more shattered.

“W-well,” (again; the stuttering back-stab) “I suppose the other children knew, w-when I was very young. They’d tug on the ends-” Ed tugs on them now, but gently, intoxicatingly, thrillingly (and Oswald might be falling apart in his hands). “-a-and rip out my feathers,” Ed pulls one out now, but it’s quick and satisfying like pulling a thorn; not the pencil-sharp tweezing of an eyebrow.

“It was crooked,” Ed explains quietly.

“Okay,” Oswald swallows the words out, trying not to drown in his too-gasping breaths.

“There’s some more,” Ed notes quietly. “Should I get them.”

“Just a few,” Oswald asks. “It might be too painful, otherwise.” (It’s a complete lie; none of this is painful.)

“Just the really bad ones,” Ed agrees. He makes quick work of it, nipping the badly bent feathers out before soothing back over the spot with the flat of his hand. Only Oswald’s mother has ever done this. He wonders if he’s giving a part of her away. Or maybe he’s sharing this part of her with someone else.

“My mother used to do this.” Ed hums and pulls out another feather. “I suppose she’d like for me to have someone else to do it now.” Ed hums at this too.

“I think you’re done.”

“Okay.”

Air rushes; Ed’s moving away. He comes back moments later _(the air’s restored again)_ and sits on the bed beside him. And he sits. Ed’s not moving.

“Ed?” Oswald questions. “Is something wrong?”

“Do you really trust me, Oswald?” Ed asks, and it’s like froth-bubbles in the ocean.

“I think so,” Oswald says. “Strange, isn’t it?”

Ed just says; “You can open your eyes if you want.” Broken-off exhales like he wants to say more, but can’t.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Oswald opens his eyes, blinks back the surge of colour and focuses on Ed’s warm brown. They seem to say whatever he can’t.

In sparrow songs and fire cracks, Ed wraps the clean bandages around his _appendage_ and shoulder. Oswald’s mind is stuck in a traffic jam of calm and the desire for something else, but he can’t place the missing element yet and isn’t sure if he wants to.

“You may need a shower tomorrow,” Ed notes quietly, securing a safety pin to hold the bandage in place.

“I don’t have showers,” Oswald tells him. “Only baths.”

“I don’t have one,” Ed admits shakingly. He trembles and Oswald flutter-flies to catch him.

“It’s okay,” rush-hour traffic, why is everything standing still? “We’ll make do, somehow.”

“Okay.” Ed takes his hands away. Oswald wants to hold on, struggles to find a way that won’t feel cliff-hangingly desperate. 

He remembers the way his mother had taught him the five languages of love, said he’ll need them someday. Gift giving, quality time, physical touch, acts of service, words of affirmation. Oswald can only do so much, so he grabs Ed’s hand and holds it like a dove, looks him in his eyes and says; “Thank you, Ed.” And it’s not nearly enough, so he adds; “I was right to put my trust in you.”

Ed floats his hand away, sincere sadness-smile and cryptic conundrums in his eyes (only a man like Ed Nygma could possess such a riddle-miasma expression and make it beautiful).

“It’s late. I think you should get some more rest. I want you to try stay awake for most of tomorrow,” Ed says.

Oswald wants to tell him that he isn’t tired anymore, merely sleepy, but he’s not sure Ed will understand and he’s content to keep it to himself.

“You should take some painkillers first, though,” Ed continues. “And you’ll probably need something to eat.”

Ed finds him a half decent banana and brings him two white pills and a glass of water (thankfully strawless).

“Okay, you should sleep alright.” Ed moves away and something occurs to Oswald.

“Ed?” he asks. “Where have you been sleeping?”

Ed reddens and gestures across the room. Oswald straightens his spine and sees the library-dusted-shelves looking sofa, a particularly unpleasant shade of olive green. It’s not good enough.

“You can share the bed with me, if you’d like?” Oswald says. _(Don’t think about it.)_

“Really?” Ed asks, and Oswald nods because it seems his vocal cords have stopped playing songs.

So Ed goes, changes his clothes and brushes his teeth _(is this what that feels like?)_ and takes his place by Oswald’s side, pulls back the sheets duvet and quilt and it’s like this was supposed to happen.

(And Oswald’s fingertips might curl toward him, his feathers might still quiver for his touch, and his name might be the last thing spoken in Oswald’s mind before he falls into the deep blue.)

***

He dreams again, but it’s new and different. He’s in an unrecognisable place with tall trees and frosted grass. The sky is a black sea, littered with shining stars and, in the distance, water runs in cascading splashes and sleep-heavy drips.

It seems peaceful.

He sees her here too, calls her mother and clutches her while he still can.

But it’s time to let go.

He tells her the truth, how things have changed since meeting Ed. How his smile glows brighter than the moon up above. How Oswald’s heart soars sometimes and he can’t explain it.

He tells her he loves her, always has, always will. But he thinks it might be time to let her go. At least in the real world.

Tells her how sad he’s been, how much his heart has ached for her, how many times he’s wanted to tear Galavan limb from limb for all that he did.

She seems to understand.

“I will be here, lelkem. Whenever you need me. I will remain here.”

He smiles up at her, both their eyes glistening with star-captured tears. He hugs her, kisses her forehead the way she used to for him. She smells like lilies and it’s perfect.

“I have to go soon, mother,” he notes, watching the dark sky edge into a soft shade of purple. The sun will be up soon.

She asks him to hold her until he goes. He does.

It’s so surreal, he thinks he might be dreaming.

***

Oswald wakes up and it seems that a weight has been lifted from his chest. He’s floating above the bed, a smile pulling at the relaxed muscles of his lips.

But then he opens his eyes and has to remind himself that, although he is a killer, Ed is his only friend right now and it would be wrong.

“Why are you watching me sleep?” It comes out rumbled and slow like a-not-quite-turned-off tap.

“I-I wasn’t, I wasn’t even--You were sleeping? I never… D-did you know that in the south of France, ‘sleep’ is considered-”

“Ed, stop,” Oswald groans, turning his head to bury his face in his pillow. “You’re forgiven.”

“O-okay.” Oswald tries to will his body into something that wants to move. It seems highly improbable.

“You’re still not a morning person, I see,” Ed notes, the mattress shifting as he sits up. Oswald grunts. It’s the best he can manage.

“No matter, you can rest for another ten minutes whilst I make breakfast.” Oswald grunts again and Ed’s weight removes itself completely.

Oswald dozes, that floaty, weightless feeling returning (he’s a bubble that can’t be popped, flying higher and higher until he’s carried off to space).

Oswald returns to his body some ten minutes later, reanimating himself at the sumptuous smell of something rich, sticky-sweet.

He sits up, mouth already salivating at the prospect of breakfast. Ed’s humming to himself (that old song from long ago) while he flits from the kitchen to the table by the window. Still always moving, it seems.

As Oswald is making an effort to push the covers down his chest and shuffle his way out from beneath them, he sees Ed pick up a bundle of chopsticks and arrange them like a bouquet in a glass on the table.

“What are those for?” He asks, voice scratchy like sandpaper.

“Percussion,” Ed tells him, a grin lighting up his face. Oswald is tempted to tell him that it’s too early to smile that wide, but something keeps him from doing so. Seeming to sense Oswald’s scepticism, Ed plucks two chopsticks from the posy and clinks them against a glass then a plate demonstratively.

“Ah, yes, well done,” Oswald drones, yawning.

“Thank you,” Ed replies happily. Oswald just rolls his eyes and smiles. “Are you awake enough to have some food? I made some crépes, and there’s also some jam and fresh raspberries.”

Oswald’s mouth twists. “Coffee first.”

“Um, I’m afraid you’re not allowed coffee with your medication,” Ed tells him. “Besides… I have none.”

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Oswald groans, head tipping forward so he could clutch his temples in his hands.

“But,” Ed adds cheerily. “I’ve read that an apple can wake you up more than coffee can!”

“Wow,” Oswald mutters, not looking up from his hand-shelter.

“So…” Ed encourages. Sighing, Oswald looks up from his hands.

“What the hell is that?” He asks immediately.

“It’s an apple, of course,” Ed says plainly, frowning at him. Oswald thinks he sees him grit his teeth (there’s the Ed Oswald wants to see).

“Why is there a smiley-face carved on it?” Oswald asks.

“Oh!” Ed exclaims brightly, all irritation leaving his voice. “I saw it in a T.V. show once. Isn’t it cool?”

Oswald isn’t really sure what to say.

“Here, I have the knife if you want to carve something else,” Ed says, scuttling to the kitchen and back with a sharp knife in his hand. Oswald takes it.

“Thanks, but this will be fine,” Oswald says, using the knife to cut a wedge off before popping it in his mouth.

“Coolio,” Ed says, and Oswald isn’t surprised at all. “I’ll just finish with the crépes, then.”

“Right,” Oswald nods, cutting off another wedge.

When the apple is done and core disposed of, Oswald finally gets out of bed and hobbles over to the chair, sitting forward on the seat.

“Oh, sorry I don’t have a backless one,” Ed apologizes. Oswald looks over, a little at a loss for what to say because Ed’s apology actually sounded genuine.

“It’s… fine. I usually wouldn’t mind, but a bullet-wound isn’t always a great place to put pressure on. At least, not at this stage,” Oswald explains.

“Oh, of course,” Ed nods and goes back to arranging the crépes in unnecessarily intricate patterns. Somehow, Oswald feels like he’s King of Gotham again, someone going to special lengths just to make things perfect. 

“You know you don’t have to do that, Ed,” Oswald tells him. “I’m not exactly King anymore.”

“Nonsense,” Ed dismisses easily, bringing two high-piled plates of crépes to the table with a wide smile. “Go ahead and start, I’ll just bring the berries and jam.”

Between over-spilling mouthfuls and full-bellied chortles, they talk. Ed asks about his time as King, leaning forward in his chair with his attention rapt and addictive. Ed tells him of his recent cases, murderous monstrosities in spine-tingling detail. Says that Oswald is the first person who wanted to hear him speak about it. Oswald swallows down his crépe with a mouthful of feeling and simply tells him that murder is his area and he’ll always be interested.

Always is a long time.

When there’s more talking than chew-swallowing, Ed breaks out the chopsticks and shows Oswald how to use them to create the desired beat (Ed’s hands clutching his, guiding, heart thumping, looking up to see that razor sharp focus, _this is happening_ ).

They sing; “The fire has gone out,” Ed’s smile, flashing bright like a strobe light. “Wet from snow above,” The swift, precise movement of his hand, everything in sharp, focused relief. “But nothing will warm me more than my,” The dancing sparks beneath Oswald’s skin; he is firelight. “My mother’s love,” Ed looks up and Oswald gulps air. “I light another candle,” Oswald really isn’t the best singer, but Ed’s smiling at him like he’s a nightingale in the dead of night where beautiful things happen) “Dry the tears from my face,” Oswald is a crime scene and Ed’s the one holding the knife. “Nothing can protect me more,” This is where darkness and night-thrills come to rest. “Than my mother’s warm embrace,” Something is birthing in the reflection on Ed’s glasses. “The path ahead is dark,” They’re becoming something new. “So dark I cannot see,” The skies are clear, but a storm brews in their teeth. “But I will not fear,” Ed’s voice is crescendoing into a euphoria Oswald has never seen before. “Because my mother looks over me.”

“And again!” They cheer.

“The fire has gone out,” _Rat, tat, tat;_ chopsticks and heartbeats. “Wet from snow above,” _(Has Oswald ever been this happy?)_ Oswald takes a sip from a beaker glass _(“It’s cranberry juice, it’s good for you, I promise.”)_ Ed continues without him. “But nothing will warm me more…”

_(Oswald thinks he might love him.)_

“Than my…” _Rat, tat, tat,_ how is Oswald going to get out of this one?

“My mother’s love.” Ed looks up at him with such delight, and Oswald can feel his heart swell and his fingers tingle.

“What happened to that gentleman you had tied up earlier?” It’s not quite what he wanted to ask, but it’s no less of a proposal. Oswald’s smirking (smiles can’t be contained and Ed’s always have been infectious.)

“Galavan’s lackey?” Ed purrs, and his eyes flash. Oswald isn’t used to this feeling in his chest, he might throw up rainbow-glitter if he’s not careful. “Why do you ask?” Ed puts his elbows on the table, chopsticks poking out from beneath his fingers, and Oswald doesn’t want to use the word adorable, so he won’t.

Oswald raises his eyebrows ever-so-slightly and Ed’s smile grows impossibly larger (ever eager to please). He turns, eyes focussed on an as-yet-unexplored corner of the room.

“Come with me,” he says, like he’s an angel reaching for him with an outstretched hand. Oswald doesn’t hesitate to take it.

Ed leads him to a cupboard, opens it up with his childish glee and sabre-tooth smile. That sharpness, it’s there behind his eye. Oswald doesn’t know how, but he can see it.

“My mother always said a party isn't a party without entertainment,” Oswald says, let’s the words roll off his tongue dry, that same flavour of a well aged _Sauvignon Blanc_ , or even an exceptionally good _Riesling_. (Oswald may miss his wine, but he’s sure this will taste better.)

Ed laughs, and Oswald watches as that dark, mangled creature within drips from between his overstretched lips. Appendages twitch, and Oswald lets them. 

_(Shifting, stretching, moving beneath threadbare fabric; something is alive back there.)_

Ed pulls Mr Leonard’s trussed-up-chicken body into the centre of the room. He’s on display. A singular spotlight on the cleared-out stage. Like art critics and vultures, they circle their prey, looking for the chink in his armour which will inevitably be his end.

“What are you going to do with him?” Ed whispers, consonants whistling with uncontained excitement. Oswald’s traitor-gaze slinks over to him, watches eager-clenched fists and comic-wide eyes. It occurs to Oswald that this, _this_ thing, is a _performance_. Mr. Leonard is merely a prop; Oswald is the lead actor on this stage, and it’s his job to invigorate and entertain. He will be the one to entice and thrill until Ed’s diamond-cut darkness emerges like it should.

So he’ll do just that.

Oswald remembers the first time he’d beaten a person, how he’d chuckled blood and corpsified a man’s breath away. Fish’s men had been ordered to pull him off. Said he didn’t know when to stop. They were wrong; Oswald had known exactly how many hits it took before the man had died. He’d just wanted to see what would happen if he kept going.

“Is there anything you’ve wanted to see before, Ed?” Oswald asks now, turning to him with smoke smears on his face.

“You,” Ed says, breathless and lustrous, pupils wide and black and what if Oswald just steps forward and sees what happens? “I’ve always wanted to see how you work.”

Oswald smiles because it isn’t difficult to understand why it is Ed who has captured his brain so. “Fetch me your tools and we’ll see what I can do.”

Ed scampers off and Oswald chuckles.

With the scene set and the props lined up in order, Oswald goes to work.

Halfway through, he sheds the dressing gown and stands with his appendages outstretched, in mere pyjama bottoms that are much too long. Ed’s gaze is heavy like lead and spine-tingling as popping-candy.

Each drop of blood rings louder than applause. Ed fills the silence in-between with unrestrained giggles and cheer, with clapping hands and startled gasps. Oswald’s audience of one is more than enough, he thinks with a smirking smile.

“What next, do you think?” Oswald asks, turning his body towards Ed. He wears the blood-splatters like jewels and war-medals; has been knighted by the king of shadows. Ed seems preoccupied, doesn’t answer, glass eyes tracking lines down Oswald’s body. Oswald shivers under the attention, wanting to stretch out like a house-cat and see how far Ed is willing to go with his ‘examination’.

“Ed, I asked you a question.” 

“Uh-uh, yes, sorry,” Ed stutters. Oswald’s appendages give a single flap. He doesn’t know what it means.

“What next?” Oswald repeats.

“W-what?” Oh, _Ed_.

“How should he die?” Oswald enunciates, clipped and pencil-pointed. He’s been counting the blows, one must understand. Now it’s time for the finale.

Ed looks at him with this _fire_ , like he’s been waiting all his life for this moment. “How did you do it? The first time.”

Oswald smirks. “Simple really.” He drops the bone saw and picks up Ed’s pocket knife instead. Eyes on Ed’s, he licks his lips and mimes slitting his own throat. _(It’s so close, he can **taste** it.)_

Ed's throat moves and he speaks in low-tones and frog-croaks when he says “That will do nicely.”

His creature has escaped, is holding Ed’s bones and skin. Oswald revells in it, let’s himself have ten seconds.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…

And it’s done. (Mr. Leonard’s body slumps and Oswald’s foot pushes the chair over just so he can hear the _bang_.)

Oswald licks the blood from his lips and watches as Ed gasps and laughs. Yes, something deeper has come out to play.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Oswald tells him. These are the moments he lives for; when his body takes over and his mouth curls like a cat’s tail and his heart hammers like a train going over tracks.

(Things are heating up now.)

Ed looks at him, coy-like from behind a feathered fan, and says “Only ‘cause you asked nicely.”

(It doesn’t make complete sense, and that’s exactly as it should be.)

Oswald tries to remember that there’s a dead body laying nearby, but it’s hard when Ed’s looking at him like that.

“If I tell you something, will you promise not to be mad?” The words are hinged on caution, yet Ed appears unafraid.

“Sure.” Oswald’s curious now. Ed takes a step forward and it suddenly strikes Oswald how far those long legs can carry him.

“You’ve got blood in your wings.” Ed’s close enough for it to be a murmur, close enough for Oswald to imagine he can feel the sentence brush against his skin. Oswald doesn’t berate him for his word-choice.

“It can dry, for all I care,” Oswald says. He wants to see what Ed will do.

Ed steps forward, and it’s the right move, Queen to Knight-four. “Your bandages have blood on them too,” he says.

“Surely, that’s what they’re intended for,” Oswald reminds him with a smirk.

“As your surgeon, I think the best decision is to change them,” Ed tells him astutely.

“Oh? A _surgeon?_ ” Oswald asks, raising his eyebrows mockingly. (He wants to _see_ , this unpredictable thing needs to surprise him again.)

“I am the one who removed the bullet from your shoulder, so yes,” Ed says. He’s daring and authoritative _(and isn’t that fun?)_.

“Go on then,” Oswald says, flutters his fingers in a ‘proceed’ motion as he makes his way back to bed and sits down atop the quilt.

Ed begins to gather his equipment, and Oswald tries valiantly not to fall off the edge of whatever cliff it is he’s standing on. Ed comes over and places a hand on his shoulder

“Maybe, just...” Ed gently pulls him into a more accessible position. Methodical hands remove the bandages from his appendage and shoulder (pressure released; he can breathe again). Ed uses something soft and wet to wash the blood off his skin. It tastes like something domestic and caring, and his mother’s eyes flash in Oswald’s mind once more.

“Tell me something,” Oswald says. He needs to fill all this space in the air.

“What about?” Ed asks. He’s quiet, distracted, far away.

“Anything,” Oswald says, but it sounds desperate so he adds, “Tell me why you believe in fate.”

“Well,” Ed chuckles, but it’s not childlike glee or dark-dripping blood; more bitter and self-deprecating. “When you spend most of your life in the wrong place, at the wrong time, you kind of have to tell yourself something. Fate, it’s… a nice story I guess. Simultaneously frivolous nonsense, while also being… logical, in a sense. I guess that’s the reason most people believe in fate; it makes it easier to comprehend the unexplainable moments we didn’t think we deserved.”

Oswald doesn’t really know what to say. “Is it always like that?” He tries.

“No.” Ed’s hand slips and brushes a feather. Oswald shivers. “Not when I met you. It was quite surprising, really, how well things worked out.”

Oswald has to agree with him there.

“I’m going to wash your wings, now,” Ed tells him. Oswald’s mouth opens. And shuts. “Tell me something.” The fabric drags through Oswald’s appendages. 

“What?” (There’s a pattern to this.)

“Tell me…” Ed deliberates for a moment. “Tell me something about your mother.”

“She was kind to me,” Oswald says, an automatic track that seems to play whenever she’s brought up. “She… she didn’t have to do what she did. She saw past my…” (his wings twitch, and the cracks show through the lense for a moment before he takes a breath and continues) “...lesser qualities. She _chose_ to see… everything. Not just these things.”(wings twitch-twitch-twitching) “She just… saw me. I guess.”

Ed is silent. The cloth is still gliding through Oswald’s feathers. He wonders if it’s overkill. He hasn’t been counting.

“Against what everyone else said… she made a choice.” Oswald gulps (wings are flat and his breathing isn’t normal; there are tears in his eyes). “Not all parents do that.”

Ed’s movements stop and something of a stillness settles over both of them. 

“When I was younger,” Oswald says. “Our landlords used to charge us extra. For ‘harbouring a monster’. That’s why I had to hide. She didn’t want me to, but I wasn’t her burden to bear. She’d already done so much. And I was tired of the way they looked at us in the street. I just wanted her to be happy.”

“You didn’t fail her,” Ed says. His hands tighten in Oswald’s feathers and he gasps.

“Then why does it feel like I did?” Oswald asks (he’s definitely crying now).

“I don’t know,” Ed says. There’s a simplicity there that Oswald admires. His hand silently directs Oswald to turn around until they’re sitting, facing each other. “There may be universes out there where things didn’t go that way. Where you made a different decision, took another path, _something_. But I don’t think all of them would've lead you here, to me.”

Oswald’s breath shudders as he swallows air.

“There may even be universes where you weren’t born like this.” Ed’s hand brushes his wing, gentle, _loving_ (god, please, let it be loving). “But I don’t know if things would’ve turned out quite the same either.”

“Oh?” It’s all the words he can manage with his heart in the air.

“Maybe the bullet would have gone straight into your heart with nothing to stop it. Maybe you would have died before I had the chance to find you. Maybe you’d have stayed here, but I wouldn’t have…” Ed pauses, sucking his bottom lip in thought. “I wouldn’t have seen you quite so clearly. Not like this.” Ed drags his fingers through Oswald’s feathers and all of him shivers.

“I do believe in fate,” Ed says. “But only in the things we would have chosen ourselves. Because I think I’d always choose the route which led us right here.”

“Really?” Oswald doesn’t know how to not doubt him.

“Really. You could steal my sandwiches all over again,” Ed smiles, but it’s coloured in a different shade of sincerity.

“Why?” How can this be real life?

“Because you’re the most interesting person I’ve met,” Ed tells him. “And I don’t care what people say.” Ed’s eyes drag up to where Oswald’s wings (when did he start calling them that?) stick out from behind his shoulders. “I think you’re beautiful.”

“Ed,” a gravelly gasp that escapes without cause or permission. “Why did you bring me here? Really?”

“Why do you think?” Ed asks. (He’s leaning in now.)

“It’s not just what I think,” he says (gulps). “It’s also what I hope.”

“Tell me.” (Leaning closer.)

“I _think_ ,” eyelashes are fluttering, lips are quivering, “-that I may love you.” Ed blinks and Oswald’s breath catches. “And I _hope_ ,” heartbeat in his ears, don’t let this end badly. “-that you may love me too.”

Oswald counts his heart beat, waiting for the final hit.

“I think I do,” a whisper of breath and it’s somehow everything Oswald’s ever wanted. “I do love you.”

It’s Oswald’s last bow as he takes a leap of _fate_ as he leans forward, presses their lips together as one. There’s a still-blinking moment where everything is ice-cube-frozen before their hearts begin to beat again and they just sink in. Feeling Ed's lips part, Oswald dips his tongue inside, melting icebergs and Antarctic ocean with a fire he hadn’t anticipated. His tongue brushes the roof of Ed's mouth, and Ed shudders in response, capturing Oswald’s forearms in his fists, clawing at them like a wild thing.

Wireframes dig into his skin and Oswald’s lungs are aching to take a breath, so he gives into the tide and pulls away, if only to drown in Ed’s gasps some small inches from his lips.

“Fated, you said?” Oswald asks, his lips hanging open like a postbox because what’s inside cannot be contained.

“Fate,” Ed agrees with a sure nod, nose brushing his with a butterfly sort of tenderness. Ed’s hand slip backwards, bury themselves in his feathers. 

It suddenly makes sense to Oswald why he has them there.

_“Fate.”_ A soft whisper like wind whistling through tree branches. _“Fate.”_ A lullaby to sing him to sleep, to carry his dreaming to promising lands. _“Fate.”_ A reason to stay.

_**Fate.** _

**Author's Note:**

> And... scene. Thank you so much for reading! As always, any and all comments/kudos are greatly appreciated! Catch you next time!


End file.
